Voroshilovgrad Read online

  The clay we’d exposed had a sweet and piquant smell. I had dug up something valuable, something I’d always suspected was there. I never would have imagined that it was right there under the surface this whole time. Shortly thereafter, we lowered Pakhmutova in as far as we could manage. “My second funeral in twenty-four hours,” I thought as I tossed some dirt over her body. We filled in the grave, Injured planted his antenna, and now our work was done.

  Katya stood at the grave for some time. Then she said goodbye to everyone and ran home, holding her raincoat in her hands like a kite.

  Kocha’s relatives came by the station in the late afternoon. They drove into the parking lot in their beat-up Mercedes. A big piece of cellophane, attached with Scotch tape, covered the rear window. Seven people were jammed into the car. They had sobered up after the funeral but hadn’t changed clothes yet, so they were all still in their black jackets and colorful dress shirts; they had taken off their ties, though I could see them hanging out of their jacket pockets like boa constrictors. Kocha’s relatives were speaking loudly and using a lot of incomprehensible words; they kept calling him gadjo and kept him away from the Mercedes when he eagerly tried hopping inside it. They greeted Injured respectfully, though they were a tad too familiar with him. They shook his hand and kissed him three times, as per the Orthodox tradition. After that they came up to me. Kocha and Injured stood off to the side, giving us our space. They greeted me, one by one—their handshakes were short yet firm.

  “Hey Herman,” said Pasha, their leader. “A friend of our mother’s is our friend, too.”

  “Huh?”

  “You. You buried our mom with us yesterday,” Pasha explained. “Tamara told us about you.”

  “Great,” I thought, “now these guys are gonna slice me up.”

  “She said you needed some help?” Pasha asked.

  “Some help?”

  “Herman,” said Borman, Pasha’s right hand man, a fat, bald dude, stepping forward. “We heard about everything.”

  “About everything?”

  “About everything. About the tanker and all that. We just wanted to say that if you need any help we’ve got your back. All right?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, don’t let anyone push you around,” Borman continued. “Just give us a call if you need anything. We’ll be there for you if you need us.”

  “Now the ball is in your court,” Pasha added. “It all depends on how you act. You see what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” I answered. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it, bro,” Pasha said, extending his hand. “Hang in there.”

  The rest of them shook my hand too, exchanged kisses with Injured, kicked Kocha off the hood of their car, started up the motor, and pulled away, heading back down into the city. As they hit the highway, they crossed paths with a black Volkswagen, which had pulled onto the side road and was now flying toward the station.

  “Who’s that pulling in?” Injured asked, irritated.

  “It’s for me,” I said.

  Injured looked at Kocha gloomily and headed over to the garage. Kocha stood next to me, examining the newcomers, clearly intrigued. The Volkswagen rolled over to the gas pumps and stopped. Lyolik and Bolik stepped out of the car, looking around anxiously and stretching their legs after their long trip. They weren’t in a hurry to hug me; they just watched me attentively, waiting for me to say something. Bolik wiped some sweat off his forehead with a damp handkerchief. Lyolik was tense, fiddling with his glasses.

  “Hey, I’m glad you guys could make it.”

  “Hello, Herman,” said Bolik, a note of concern evident in his voice.

  “Hey,” Lyolik said, avoiding my eyes.

  “Herman,” Bolik said, “let’s talk.”

  “Okay, what would you like to talk about?”

  “Just the three of us, I mean.” He nodded in Kocha’s direction.

  “He won’t understand anything anyway,” I reassured them. “He’s Georgian.”

  “Gotcha,” Bolik said, apprehensively. “So, Herman, how are you doing down here?”

  “Fuckin’ shitty,” I answered.

  “Fuckin’ shitty?” Bolik asked.

  “Uh-huh. Fuckin’ shitty. They torched my tanker truck and hanged our dog.”

  “You have a dog?” Lyolik asked.

  “Not anymore. We just buried her. Kocha and I did,” I said, nodding at the old timer. He nodded back.

  “Herman,” Bolik said, clearly struggling to follow his initial train of thought, which my interaction with Kocha had derailed. “Well, basically . . . we came here to take you back home. We’re up to our eyeballs in work. Ya know . . .”

  “You guys are good friends and all, but I’m not going anywhere,” I said after a moment’s thought.

  “What do you mean you’re not going anywhere?” Bolik asked, looking dumbfounded.

  “I mean just that. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “What about your job?” Bolik asked.

  “Say that I’ve quit.”

  “What do you need all this hassle for, Herman? Come on, let’s just go home. This isn’t even your business.” Bolik was almost trembling now.

  “They torched my tanker truck and hanged my dog. This isn’t about business anymore.”

  “Listen man,” Bolik said, getting heated, as usual. “Who does this to his friends? You’re really letting us down.”

  “Did you bring my money?” I asked.

  “Huh?”

  “I said, did you bring my money? And Lyolik, why are you being so quiet?”

  “Herman,” Bolik said, “well, look. Things aren’t so clear-cut with your money.”

  “Yeah, Herman,” Lyolik said. “We’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “We borrowed some of your money. We had to pay off some bills right away. The thing is, Herman, well, we were flat broke, so we borrowed your money. So now you pretty much gotta come with us. We’ll pay you back, don’t you worry.”

  “Herman, we’ll definitely pay you back,” Lyolik added.

  “So you fuckin’ blew all my money?” I asked.

  “Herman, we’ll pay you back!” Bolik said, almost yelling. Clearly his feelings were a bit hurt.

  “Herman,” Lyolik interjected, “honest to God—we’ll pay you back!”

  “Just come back with us! You’ll see, everything will fall into place!”

  “I already told you I’m staying.”

  “We’re not going anywhere without you,” Bolik declared in the most decisive voice he could manage.

  “Hey, numb nuts,” Kocha piped up suddenly, “you heard what the boss said—he said beat it!” He took a sharpened screwdriver out of his suit pocket and starting to pick the dirt out from under his nails. “If I were you, I’d listen.”

  The word “boss” took the wind out of Bolik’s sails. He couldn’t take his eyes off the screwdriver. Eventually he turned around and headed back toward the car in silence. Lyolik stayed put, however. He hesitated a moment, then said:

  “Herman, I’ll pay you back, don’t you worry.”

  “Okay,” I answered, “sounds good.”

  “Seriously, you have nothing to worry about.”

  “All right.”

  “Maybe you wanna come back with us, after all?” he asked hopefully.

  “Nah, I’m not going anywhere. I’m where I need to be. Here, I’ve got something for you,” I said, pulling my MP3 player and headphones out of my pocket and handing them over. “A little going-away present.”

  “What are you doing?” Lyolik asked. “What are you going to listen to without these?”

  “I’ve already listened to everything I wanted to. You have to listen to music you like and not let other people take your headphones away. All right, now get out of here, man.”

  Lyolik gave me a firm handshake and headed back to the car.

  “Lyolik, hey,” I called out.

  “What?” he
asked, looking back.

  “Do you have unlimited calling?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  “Can I use your phone real quick?”

  Lyolik came up to me and handed over his cell. I called my brother. At first it seemed as though no one would pick up, as usual. Then there was a click, and I heard a woman’s voice on the other end.

  “Hey,” she said, “how are you hanging in there?”

  “Who? Me?”

  “Who else? How’ve you been doing?”

  “Pretty decent,” I answered. “And who is this?”

  “Who were you calling?”

  “My brother.”

  “Well, I’m not your brother. What did you want?”

  “I wanted to chat.”

  “Well, why don’t you chat with me,” the woman asked, laughing. “You want me to tell ya a story?”

  “You definitely have unlimited calling?” I asked Lyolik. He nodded, so I told the woman, “Okay, let’s hear it.”

  “Ever since I was a kid I’ve been afraid of heights, and I was always scared of flying too. When I grew up I decided to overcome my fear. I’d buy airplane tickets and fly—a lot.”

  “And?”

  “Well, nothing’s changed. I’m still scared of heights, but I’ve seen the world, at least.”

  “And how are you holding up now?”

  “Fine,” the woman said. “I realized it was never really about fear. I just had to let myself relax, so I started feeling better. Why don’t you try relaxing, too, all right?”

  “All right.”

  “Okay, then,” she said, laughing again. Then she hung up.

  “Here.” I handed Lyolik his phone back.

  “Is everything okay?” he asked.

  “Yep,” I answered. “Everything’s all right, everything’s fine.”

  “Kocha, do you remember that big fight in the park by the restaurant, back in 1990?” I asked.

  “In 1990?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Yeah, June 1990.”

  “Nah, man,” Kocha said, after thinking for a bit, “I don’t remember any fights. I spent June 1990 in the Gurzuf with Tamara, buddy. There was a real serious fight down there, though, let me tell you, Herman. On the beach. See, I’d barely turned my back for a second, and then . . .”

  At night, the sky looks like black fields. The air, akin to black Ukrainian soil, is teeming, fecund. The endless landscapes that spill out across the plateau seem to follow their own laws of motion and acquire their own rhythm. Stars and constellations are buried deep in the sky, while stones and roots are buried in the earth. Planets rest in the sky, while the deceased rest in the earth. Rain flows down from the sky and rivers flow out of the earth. Once the rain reaches the earth, it flows down south, filling up the oceans. The sky is always changing—heating up or cooling down or soaking up the wet August heat. Grass and trees exhaust the earth’s soil, spreading out under the flat skies, like a herd left behind by its owners. If you choose just the right spot, sometimes you can feel all these phenomena together—roots intertwining, rivers flowing, oceans filling up, planets soaring across the sky, and the living moving along the earth’s surface like the dead move beneath it.

  Part II

  1

  The priest from the funeral—the “presbyter,” as he was officially called—was looking up at the morning sun as the three figures emerged from the yellow cornstalks that swayed in the wind like hangers in an empty closet. For a while it was hard to tell who precisely was pushing their way out of the thick crops—the only clues were a black jacket flashing by, the creaking of the corn, their cool breath rising. Stomping some sand-colored leaves and mowing down the morning dew, they finally popped out onto the road: two adults and one teenager. The man in front was wearing a winter AC Milan track jacket that went down to his knees. Army boots too. The club’s black and red colors seemed faded against the troubling October sun. The man was unshaven and had long hair. He cast a shrewd yet unfocused glance at us. Another man, short and pot-bellied, wearing white work overalls stained with yellow paint, followed behind him. He had short, gray hair and was wearing Chinese-made Nike sneakers. The teenager looked the worst of all. He was wearing knockoff Dolce & Gabbana jeans and a shiny black jacket with scattered cigarette burns, square-tipped dress shoes, and had some Koss headphones on his head—which also looked like knock-offs. All three of them headed toward us without a word. I looked at the presbyter out of the corner of my eye. He was just about holding it together: was doing his best to conceal his distress. I started rooting around in my pockets, but then I remembered I was wearing someone else’s clothes. Digging around in my jacket pocket, I was surprised to find Kocha’s screwdriver. The tips of my fingers felt its sharp edge. “God’s watching out for me,” I thought, smiling at the presbyter. But he wasn’t looking at me—he was watching the strangers, quite concerned. Admittedly, there was cause for concern—the tallest guy was holding a hunting shotgun, come to think of it, while the pot-bellied one was expertly flourishing a machete. The teenager was the only one not holding anything, but he had his hands in his pockets, so one could only imagine what he was hiding in there. The distance between our two groups closed. The tall guy unexpectedly swung the gun off his shoulder, cocked it, and fired a blast into the sky. Then he spread out his arms, holding the weapon with one hand, and came over. The rising sun flashed behind his shoulder. The October air was dry, like gunpowder.

  He stopped, dropped his hands, and shouted amiably at the presbyter:

  “Father?”

  The presbyter was doing his best to exude an air of self-importance.

  “It’s me, Tolik,” the guy in the AC Milan jacket said to the presbyter, dashing over to embrace him.

  The presbyter tolerated his affection with surprisingly good grace, and then the soccer star headed over to embrace me.

  “Tolik,” he forced out his name, nearly hugging me to death.

  “Herman,” I answered, freeing myself from his grip.

  “Herman?” the soccer star asked. “Yura’s brother?”

  “Yep.”

  Tolik broke out into amiable laughter. Then he remembered his fellow travelers and started introducing me to them.

  “That’s Gosha,” he said, pointing at the pot-bellied man. “He showed us the shortcut. We were like plantation owners,” Tolik said, pointing at the machete, “cutting our way toward you. Yeah, and that’s Siryozha, Gosha’s son. He’s studying at the local community college. He’s going to be an engineer—well, maybe.”

  Siryozha, continuing to listen to his music, waved at us. Gosha gave the presbyter a long and heartfelt handshake.

  “We went straight through the fields on purpose,” Tolik explained to the presbyter, “to cut you off. It’d be best to turn here, otherwise we could bump into the farmers farther down. We’re at war with them.”

  “What are you fighting for?” I asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Tolik asked, surprised. “To expand our sphere of influence. Sure, in all honesty, sometimes we do cross over into their territory now and again. But, you know, we have to hide our shit somewhere,” he explained. “We leave everything out in their fields. That’s capitalism for you. Anyway . . . they’re waiting for us out there,” Tolik said, looking off into the distance.

  Only now did I notice that his right eye was glass. Maybe that’s why he’d looked so mysterious to me. Now he was laughing heartily again—he was an easygoing guy, it seemed, despite everything—living in a warzone wasn’t getting him down, at least.

  “Well then,” he said, his real eye directed at the pot-bellied man, “let’s give them a call and get going.”

  The pot-bellied man handed me his knife and started digging around in his overall pockets. They seemed bottomless. He kept taking things out and handing them to Tolik and me to hold: I got two red autumn apples, and Tolik got a handful of spark plugs. Then, much to my surprise, I got a hand grenade covered with nail polish; next came a few old, battered
cassettes for Tolik, whose glass eye twinkled joyfully. Finally, the pot-bellied man reached all the way down past his knee and came back up with an old Sony Ericsson phone, one with a short antenna. He walked a few steps away from us, pulled out the antenna, and turned the thing on. After a few minutes of struggling with the ancient apparatus, he called back, dejectedly, “I don’t have any bars. We’ll have to drive up to the top of the hill.”

  “We’re down in a gully here,” Tolik explained. “We’ll have to drive up to the top of the hill,” he repeated. “We’ll take a little detour. We’ll be there in no time.”

  Gosha collected his toys and dropped them into his cavernous pockets, wiping the grenade off on his sleeve before tossing it back in. He also took back the machete. The three of them just started milling around, seemingly expecting something to happen.

  “What’s the deal?” Mr. One Eye blurted out at last. “Are we going or what?”

  “What are you going to drive up there in?” the presbyter asked, clearly confused.

  “What do you mean?” Tolik asked, chuckling. “We’re going with you. We can all fit.”

  Seva, our driver, who had been sitting in the car this whole time watching through his sunglasses, took them off to admire the spectacle of us all jamming into his old, white Volga, which seemed to be rusting more and more the farther we traveled. The presbyter took a seat up front, next to Seva; Mr. One Eye squeezed himself in right behind the presbyter, insistently nudging him toward the driver and miraculously getting the door shut behind him. Tolik’s puffy Milan jacket engulfed both himself and the presbyter like an airbag. Pot-bellied Gosha and his son hopped in the back; seeing a woman already sitting there, they started apologizing profusely, albeit without surrendering even an inch of space. I was the last one in, and Siryozha had to sit on my lap. He was so close I could hear the music playing in his headphones—I thought it was shit, so I just did my best to ignore it. Seva put his sunglasses back on and looked at the presbyter inquisitively. Tolik’s hand emerged from under his Milan jacket, waving the driver on. The Volga shuddered and started along the dirt road. At times, the corn came right up to the edge of the road, rubbing up against the sides of the car. Tolik directed the driver, flapping his arms. The car was crawling up the hill, up to where we would have more bars and where the farmers would presumably be waiting for us. Then, Tolik was motioning off somewhere to the left. Seva braked and looked askance at his one-eyed passenger, but Tolik persisted in his waving. Our driver obligingly spun the wheel, and we dove into a dry, rustling expanse of corn, shining in the afternoon sun and cutting off our view in every direction. It seemed there was a path hidden there, nearly invisible to the untrained eye, though obvious enough once we were on it; it ran through the heart of this corn jungle, protecting us from the evil eye. We drove slowly, pushing through the cornstalks and tuning in to the random sounds scattered out in the sun-drenched fields. It felt as though the Volga was barely moving—the thick dust on the dashboard jumped every time we hit a ditch.